


an Eye for an Eye

by The_Floating_World



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), End!Gertrude, Gertrude accidentally makes Jon a better friend by activating his contrariness, Gertrude has many wronged sons to answer for, Ghost!Gertrude, Jon did not need another disapproving grandma, The power of friendship, and spite, but that’s what he got, or another person who refuses to die trying to use him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24615190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Floating_World/pseuds/The_Floating_World
Summary: (the whole world goes blind)Gertrude Robinson made a very poor Archivist.  On the other hand, she was an excellent harbinger of the End.This is both fortunate and terribly unfortunate for Jonathon Sims.Or;Gertrude has to continue her fight against Jonah Magnus via a neurotic and frustratingly skeptical man who doesn’t seem to understand the meaning of pragmatism.  Specifically, she has to do this without immediate plans of sacrificing him.  It is very hard.
Relationships: Gertrude Robinson & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Magnus Institute Archival Staff & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 33
Kudos: 160





	an Eye for an Eye

**Author's Note:**

> Gertrude - A badass bitch but was wrong and needs to answer for some actions.  
> Elias - Great villain! I can’t wait to destroy him.
> 
> I want Elias to die and I want Gertrude to kill him because she was too badass for him to get the last laugh. This is the result. Jon’s just caught in the middle, as always. But he gets friends because I say so and he’s going to get to join the “Gertrude Robinson is ruining my life” club. 
> 
> Gertrude is so hard to write.

Terminus is not playing the same game as the other fears. It will always be the winner in the end. 

It still has its avatars, enjoys a good gamble or two. On the macroscale, any loss in only a setback. It has already won the war. Still, it deigns to take its own avatars once in a while. They also tend to be as unconcerned as it. 

All things must End; there is no rush, no need to scheme. Before any other, Terminus has existed. Man has known the fear of death since they knew life.

It sees no need for its followers to scrabble for some ritual to bring it closer to the world. Every world is death’s world. Terminus is therefore unconcerned with the success or failure of any of the others.

That does not mean it does not know Gertrude Robinson. She sings a song of death greater than any human it has known. She has not brought death as massively as kings or generals, but she has brought fear to monsters who think they exist beyond death’s reach. An ultimately foolish belief. The Archivist showed many that.

Her face became synonymous with the End to many. The ends of their rituals, their plans, their life. A specter that haunts the monsters of the world for decades upon decades.

Terminus is as fond of her as it is of anyone. No one could serve it better, and she had not even been its. But Gertrude has rejected the Eye in most ways that matter. Certainly, she collected knowledge aplenty, but it was knowledge accumulated for action. Inaction was a tool for Gertrude, but ultimately anathema to her self-given position of monster of monsters.

When an avatar dies, it may trigger their Becoming. Gertrude never could have become a true Archivist. At least, not the kind that Jonah Magnus and the Eye need. Not least because she would have killed him had he not killed her first. And she had been very close at that.

The End is patient because all things end. That does not mean that Jonah Magnus’ delusions of everlasting do not draw its attention. His fear of death is _divine_. It had never been sweeter than when Gertrude Robinson looked at him and pictured him dead. 

The ex-Archivist abased herself to no fear, even as the titular avatar of one. The roiling sense of duty, defiance, and disdain in her wouldn’t let her. On the other hand, she was very dedicated to her job, and loath to let another get the last laugh. Particularly, smug men that she could eat for a rather bland breakfast. 

Terminus offers a deal and plays a game. She cheats ruthlessly in ways it cannot ( _chooses not_ ) to point out. It is delighted. Insomuch as something like it can feel.

A deal is made.

Gertrude hates the idea of giving in to any of the Entities. She hates Jonah Magnus more.

* * *

Jonathon Sims is not freaking out. Despite being underqualified for his job, tasked with organizing an impossibly disorganized archive, and utterly certain in the part of him that he relegates to the dark corners of his mind that he is being _watched_. Not at the moment, necessarily, but certainly when he is recording statements. Other times too, occasionally.

But he is not freaking out. He will be perfectly able to manage this. Somehow. And even if he feels like he’s drowning with nary a life preserver in sight, he certainly won’t let other people know it. If nothing else, his abhorrence of people thinking him incompetent will pull him through.

Tim and Sasha are also people he respects, even if Tim is utterly insufferable at times. He asked for them to be transferred with him and he feels responsible for the rocky transition. But Jon is prickly at the best of times, and these are not the best of times. Every time he goes to haltingly engage in banter with Tim, the slow dread that has been simmering in his gut since he has become Head Archivist seems to catch his tongue. It makes him defensive in response, makes his responses sharper than he means them to be, outside of his usual banter with Tim. He can tell this bothers Tim, even hurts him. This just makes Jon more miserable. Misery, as it’s said, loves company.

Sasha is easier. She’s always known when to back off, when to cajole Jon rather than come off overbearing like Tim. She still pushes, still teases, but it doesn’t get his hackles up. There’s a thread of something that is simply dependable in Sasha, and it eases Jon. The roiling in his gut doesn’t completely go away, but it’s better. He doesn’t know what he’d do without her down in the Archives with them.

The less said about _Martin_ the better.

( _Jon has always been too sharp – soft things always bleed when they touch him, regardless of what he wants_ )

The stress of his job has been piling up, along with the stress of the _watching_ , and the stress of failing Tim and Sasha. Jon has tried to resolve the first by staying late and trying to get through as much of his never-ending work as possible. ( _Ignoring that reading just one statement leaves him more exhausted than any all-nighter he had pulled in college_ ). However, this just makes the second worse, making him more snappish, therefore worsening the third.

So, he’s at his apartment. Hopefully he will be able to get some rest. Like he’s ever been able to do that in his life. Martin, at least, is out sick, so that’s something of a relief. The other man likely will only be away for a few days more, so he’ll have to take this reprieve from well-intentioned _bumbling_ while he has it.

Perhaps he’ll light a candle. Georgie always had a lavender candle that she’d light when he’d get too worked up about one thing or another. She was just teasing him, but he’d come to associate it with a sense of comfort either way.

Of course, this means that as soon as he’s placed his bag next to the couch and tentatively lit the candle sitting lonesome on the table, a thrice damned _ghost_ would appear to steal away any lingering sense of sanity in his life.

“You might not want to light fires around you, unless it is for the express purpose of burning something up _._ Or down, as the case may be.”

“ _Hngh_ ”

Jon jumps and nearly topples the candle over. He scrabbles to the other side of the table, head whipping around to face where the voice had come from. Instead of the sarcastic masked robber – that sounded oddly matronly – looming with knife in hand that his mind had conjured up, Jon’s eyes instead alight upon a spectral form.

The details of the woman are a bit hard to pin down, her outline both smooth and faint. But Jon is absolutely excellent at thinking about things that perhaps would be better off left alone, in addition to ignoring the sadly bleating part of his mind that urges him to get away from dangerous situations. As he stands frozen and staring intently at the apparition, Jon begins to make out more details.

The woman appears somewhat hunched and shrunk; diminished with age. Her face is still fairly vague, mostly age lines and a thin mouth, although the large glasses on her face noticeably obscure any appearance of her eyes. They’re an opaque white that Jon can’t help but wonder if they would be sunglasses in a non-spectral form, although prescription seems more in line with the old woman façade the being is portraying.

An errant thought runs through his head that although they haven’t spoken in years, Georgie would kill him if he didn’t mention an encounter with what appears to be a ghost. Not verifiably a ghost though. There’s no reason to think this thing is what it appears to be.

A much more concrete thought about whether he has read any particularly odd books lately takes root more firmly in his head. But that too is dismissed; he knows a Leitner when he sees one.

Jon realizes he has been staring at the presumed ghost without saying anything for an indeterminate amount of time when it starts talking again, “I didn’t mean to give you a scare. I suppose I should have announced myself more forthrightly. However, with who you are now, you should only play around with fire if you have a purpose for it.”

“Who are you supposed to be? And what do you mean by ‘with who I am now’?”

Its, or her, he supposes, thin mouth curls in a warm smile, “Hm, I did just apologize for surprising you, but I don’t suppose it can be helped. I am Gertrude, Gertrude Robinson, your predecessor. And you are the new Archivist. I’m afraid there is more to the title than you know, Jonathan Sims, but I’m here to help you through it.”

“…and I’m just supposed to believe that? That you’re the ghost of my mysteriously disappeared predecessor come to help me from beyond the grave?”

“I know it’s a lot to take in. However, you do work for the Magnus Institute. The knowledge that the supernatural exists should not be new to you.”

“There is _no_ concrete evidence that something like pop-culture ghosts exist. Most “ghost-hunters” are frauds looking to make it big by fooling imbeciles who lack the barest hint of critical thinking. Even those that _do_ actually encounter something like apparitions don’t claim that one randomly wandered into their house.”

“ _Well_ I suppose that most people’s jobs don’t have them act so directly with the supernatural. You’ve read the statements, Archivist. The real ones I mean – the ones that do not record. Surely this is not the most outlandish situation you’ve heard of.”

“Actually, I do _not_ know those statements are real,” Jon lies ( _to himself and the ghost_ ), “there is precious little proof to verify any of them. And even if I did take all of those statements as truth, _none_ of them feature any benign ‘supernatural’ creatures. Or _ghosts_. Why should I believe anything you say?”

“Well, I suppose Elias wouldn’t have hired you as the Archivist if you didn’t ask questions. But, Jon, I only have your best interest at heart. As you’ve probably thought, I did not ‘mysteriously disappear’ myself. You are in danger. Let me help you.”

“Gertrude” looks kindly upon him, conveying her sincere wish to help Jon avoid whatever fate had befallen her. However, Jon is well used to discerning when old women are trying to cover up that they find him too tiresome to deal with. It only occurs to him retrospectively that playing along may have been a good idea. The specter seems to notice his worsening disposition and some incremental movement of her face turns it from kindly to calculating.

She _tch_ es, “Hm, perhaps I have lost some of my skills upon my death. Let us hope it is only the acting ones. I suppose you will be needing those more than I do now.”

Her back appears to straighten and all at once Jon is not quite sure how he ever thought of her as diminished. An aura of strength exudes where it previously hadn’t existed. It feels simultaneously like the cold metal of a knife resting promisingly at his throat and ashes coating his lungs. A chill shivers down his spine.

“Cat got your tongue now? You certainly had a lot to say just a minute ago. Well, I suppose I don’t want you _too_ easy to manipulate. Not having to play at being the kindly old woman is a bit of a relief anyway. I’m much too _dead_ for that.”

At least Jon has successfully gotten the apparition to admit that it’s not Gertrude Robinson.

As if hearing his thoughts, she says, “However, I _am_ Gertrude Robinson. I simply am not what most of those who work at the Institute think I am. You’ll learn the value of my choices, I’m sure.”

If this _is_ Gertrude Robinson, Jon would love to question her about her “choices” in (non-existent) archival organization. As this is almost assuredly not Gertrude Robinson, Jon is frantically trying to deduce what this being is trying to achieve. Sabotaging the Archives? For what reason? It could hardly be more sabotaged than how the real previous archivist had left it. 

Acknowledging that the being, if real, is likely dangerous, Jon goes to tactfully question her motives. Instead he bluntly says, “I don’t believe you.”

She gives a short sigh, “somehow, that does not surprise me.”

“I’m probably just having a small breakdown from the stress of my new job. Actually, my brain summoning the apparition of my predecessor, however shoddy her work, to ‘help’ makes perfect sense. I’m sure I’ll be fine if I sleep for more than 4 hours tonight. If you _were_ real, you’d be able to tell me something I don’t know. Something insightful, or useful.”

There’s a short pause where the ghost/apparition/possible delusion makes a minimal effort to hide her annoyance before making an ambivalent noise. 

“Very well. How about this: one of your assistants is being hassled by the Filth’s ilk. For a few days now, I believe. You know her as ‘Jane Prentiss’.”

“Wait, what? Jane Prentiss is. Wait, who is— are you talking about _Martin_?”

“You’re not really at the point where you should be swanning about playing hero, but confirming this should be enough to prove to you the veracity of my words… and existence,” Gertrude’s words are dry, but Jon’s mind is running far beyond that.

He still doesn’t believe whatever this entity is, is really Gertrude Robinson, but his hands are lightly shaking and his mind has zeroed in on the possibility that Martin may have worms burrowing into his flesh waiting to burst out of him _right at this moment_. This could be a trap or a trick, but there is no time to think about that. Not when Martin may _die_ while Jon is hemming and hawing in his living room.

Jon bursts into motion, tipping his bag on the floor over and letting his laptop and papers carelessly fall out, then swinging the empty bag onto his shoulder. He zooms around the apartment for items useful to combat something like Jane Prentiss. He tosses in the lighter he used on the candle, ignoring “Gertrude’s” earlier comment about fire. He rushes to his kitchen, hands flapping unsurely over the knives, before picking one up and tossing it into the bag. Remembering something, he hurriedly toes on his shoes, rushes to his front door, flings it open, and runs downstairs as fast as possible without breaking his neck.

“Are you planning on bursting in without a plan, then?”

“There’s no _time_!”

“I believe there is always time to not die through idiocy.”

He ignores her and finds the storage closest on the apartment’s first floor. In a stroke of luck, it is unlocked. He opens it and is immediately gratified to see that there are still a few different things of pesticide left over from an infestation the building and its sparse grounds had last summer. He isn’t sure if pesticides go bad at some point, or if they work on worms, but they’re all he has.

He attempts to stuff them into his work bag, but realizes that they won’t fit and it would be too ungainly to try to carry them all in his hands. So he once again runs up the stairs, panting, and digs quickly through his closet to find a backpack he hadn’t touched since college. He remembers to close his front door as he jogs back down and finagles the pesticides into his backpack.

As he zips it up the apparition says, “I would take that too, if I were you.”

He follows the line of her pointing finger to a fire extinguisher sitting forlornly in the back. He doesn’t bother to argue and grabs it, stuffing it as far down into his work bag as possible and keeping a hand on the part that sticks out.

Jon swings his backpack onto his back, allows a brief moment of despair at foregoing exercise for the last forever, and starts outside.

He realizes he has no clue where Martin lives.

Gertrude doesn’t say anything, but her judgement is clear as she begins floating briskly down the road. Assuming she is leading him to Martin, and considering she seems to have a stake in Jon finding him if only to convince Jon of her believability, he follows her.

He gets some looks on the metro, considering he is clutching at a half protruding fire extinguisher and his leg is bouncing a mile a minute, but for once judging eyes don’t even penetrate his mind. He’s too focused on what could be happening to Martin, and that if something happens to him it will be all Jon’s fault. God, he had even been happy Martin was out sick! The message he received about a “stomach bug” seems newly ominous and it turns Jon’s own stomach.

Jon remembers little about the neighborhoods he passes through after getting off the metro. He is very aware of his rebelling body, but he does his best to ignore it.

Then Gertrude stops in front of a small apartment complex and there are little silvery worms squirming around the ground. There are two stories, with a set of stairs leading up to a walkway lined with doors leading inside the different apartments. The number of worms become as thick as a carpet further up. Reaching the bottom of the stairs and looking up, Jon can see Jane Prentiss clearly.

She’s horrifying. Jon can’t think of a better word. She’s full of _holes_ , worms oozing in and out of them, squirming and wiggling in a woman that doesn’t seem to know she’s a corpse. Her black hair is lank and skin sallow. Her hand is knocking on a door, but instead of making the firm sound that healthy flesh and bone would, it almost seems to squish.

Revulsion climbs up his throat, but he backpedals so that he can set down his backpack and pull out the pesticides. His heart beats wildly as he uncaps the first jug and his mind almost whites out in terror as he again approaches the stairs. Some of the worms seem to perk up as if beginning to notice him, but he doesn’t wait to see if this is a trick of the eye.

Jon gives a yell and begins flinging the liquid in the jug. It is an incredibly ungainly movement and a miracle that the liquid lands in the right place at all – although the sheer quantity of worms may also have something to do with it. 

The worms writhe in what he hopes is pain and surprise. One appears to jump closer to him and he jerks in surprise, sending the jug sailing through the air towards the mass. The effect is honestly better than his awkward throws, pesticide flinging from the container’s mouth and squishing the worms it lands on, liquids gushing from it and trailing down the stairs.

Jon scrambles to pick up the next bottle of pesticide, this one with a proper spay nozzle attached. He frantically sprays at any of the worms that come near him, simultaneously stomping his feet. He begins coughing as a cloud of it begins to form. A furious cry pierces the air the longer he sprays. 

By the time the last of the insecticide run out and Jon abandons the bottle in favor of clutching the fire extinguisher, Jane Prentiss is looming at the top of the stairs. Her worms continue to writhe around and inside her, in fury and pain both.

She snarls, voice wet and distorted, “ _Archivist_.”

Jon wills his arms to not shake as he points the fire extinguisher’s hose at her, “Get away from here _right now_ or I will, will make sure you and your worms never breath oxygen again.”

Prentiss sneers down at him, but the worms around her seem lethargic despite their fury. As she begins to gingerly descend the stairs, making an unhappy gurgling hissing noise when her feet touch the dripping pesticide, Jon cautiously backs away from its bottom. The fire extinguisher stays firmly aimed at her all the while.

At the bottom, Prentiss turns her gaze fully upon him. Her eye sockets are full of worms. Jon gags a little. 

Every part of him wants to turn his gaze away from this terrible thing that used to be human, but Jon can’t manage to take his eyes off of her. As if he has to know and catalogue every revolting thing about her even as he’s half-sure she’s about to kill him.

“Fine, Archivist, take your assistant back for now. It won’t matter for long.”

She begins to walk leisurely away from him, worms trailing behind her like a grotesque train of a wedding dress. Luckily, while some of the worms seem apt to make a go at him, they ultimately follow behind their hive.

Jon lets out a breath of relief and does his best to ensure vomit doesn’t come out with it. He only stops himself from collapsing with the knowledge of stray pesticide and worm carcasses at him feet, along with the fact that he still has to let Martin know it’s okay to come out.

Looking up the stairs, he finds out he is wrong on that last part.

Martin, it turns out, had opened his door a sliver when he had heard the first shrieks of Prentiss and the sounds of movement away from his door. While it may have been a trick, the fury in her voice seemed too real. The snarled “ _archivist_ ” got his attention most of all. So, Martin had apparently gotten a front row seat to Jon making an idiot of himself. Delightful.

“Jon,” Martin starts and Jon imagines him saying he looked like a moron, “that was— amazing, and immensely satisfying. But, what are you doing here?”

“I,” he clears his throat and decidedly does not mention the apparition staring at them unimpressed, “decided to check on you.”

“You…decided to check on me…with insecticide and a fire extinguisher? Erm, I mean, thanks! So much. I— don’t know how long she would have stayed out there, if you hadn’t come. It, it means a lot, Jon.”

“Yes. Well. Don’t mention it. I’m sure it’s part of my duties to make sure my assistants are doing well.” Probably? Jon’s never been a manager before or really in charge of anyone. Elias also neglected to give him any training. But ensuring your subordinates aren’t eaten by worm infested women seems like a boss’ prerogative.

Gertrude snorts derisively. Jon ignores it.

“Still! Um. Do you want to come up to wash up a bit? I, uh, don’t have a lot of food left. Mostly canned beans. But I do have some tea I could make! If you want?”

To be perfectly honest, Martin’s tea-making abilities is one of his only redeeming factors. Jon would absolutely love to have a bracing cup of tea. However, Jon also feels like he’s on the verge of passing out and he can’t let his assistant see him in such a state of disarray when he seems to have somehow not noticed how close Jon is to breaking apart. Even if Jon is a bit suspicious that Martin is just placating him. The image of a competent boss is especially important after being attacked by a malicious worm-filled entity. 

“No thank you, Martin. I will see you at work tomorrow. Although I understand if you would like a couple days off. Your previous days absent will not be counted, all things considered.”

“Actually, Jon, I—” but Jon is already fast-walking away, fire extinguisher clasped to his front, determined to get back to his apartment before the adrenaline crash hits him.

Of course, that happens on the metro, and Jon would have missed his stop in his half-conscious state if the being claiming to be Gertrude Robinson hadn’t prompted him awake with a sharp voice. Even at this age, the disapproving voice of an old woman stabs directly into his hindbrain.

Jon manages to stagger to his apartment. He is grateful that he forgot to lock it on his way out, as when he searches his bag for keys, he only jabs a finger on the knife he had also forgotten he threw in there. 

“We will talk tomorrow when you have hopefully shaken off the shock from this encounter. Hopefully this experience will make you more willing to work with me,” she pauses, “after all, don’t you want to Know more?”

Jon is already half passed out on his sofa by then, but in his heart, despite everything, the answer is _yes_.

Gertrude knows that better than anyone.

**Author's Note:**

> Jon: Ah yes Martin, no need to thank me. My rescuing you is only expected and means nothing to me. I didn’t almost have a panic attack thinking you were in trouble or anything.
> 
> Gertrude: This is what I have to work with, huh. This is. Really it.
> 
> Martin: (unironically) Wow, Jon looked super cool confronting Prentiss by desperately slinging insecticide everywhere then wielding a fire extinguisher like a machine gun


End file.
